


one extravagant family quarrel

by sumeshi (palechubs)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Olympics, improper use of instagram stories and the olympic condom machine, sorry atsumu and sakusa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26238754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palechubs/pseuds/sumeshi
Summary: Iwaizumi should be elated to be here. Any sane person in his position would be. But the unfortunate truth is that when you’re dating a six-foot-tall menace of an Olympic athlete, who follows his ten-step Korean skincare routine more closely than his training regimens, things are never that simple.(Alternatively, Iwaizumi can't catch a break at the Tokyo Olympics.)
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 36
Kudos: 460





	one extravagant family quarrel

**Author's Note:**

> i uhhhh was supposed to finish this like a month and a half ago but then life happened... this is my first iwaoi fic since i've spent the better half of the past four years just lurking on this tag being intimidated by all the amazing writers lol :,)
> 
> nonetheless i do hope you enjoy! this is very self-indulgent because i just NEEDED to write an iwaoi olympic fic after the final manga chapter came out
> 
> also, some events/characterizations are slightly exaggerated for ~comedic effect~
> 
> ok i will stop blabbering now, enjoy!!

Iwaizumi should be happy to be at the Tokyo Olympics. 

Being here is testament to nearly ten years of hard work and sacrifice, hours spent poring over textbooks and clinic shifts taken at ungodly hours in the morning. It’s the result of years of chasing after a career he’s genuinely passionate about, one that also didn’t require him to stand on an orange court every week desperately trying to overcompensate for the fact that he never quite managed to break 182 centimeters. This is everything Iwaizumi’s ever wanted, down to the crisp smell of an air conditioned gym and the squeak of sneakers against floor as the Japanese national team runs through spiking drills in the days leading up to their first match of the Games. Hell, he even has three full weeks to spend with Oikawa, a luxury he hasn’t had for way too long, since preparation for the Olympics had naturally made them both busy to the point where their lives left little room for anything other than eating, sleeping, and training.

So really, Iwaizumi should be _elated_ to be here. Any sane person in his position would be. But the unfortunate truth is that when you’re dating a six-foot-tall menace of an Olympic athlete, who follows his ten-step Korean skincare routine more closely than his training regimens, things are never that simple.

Consider this: it’s five hours before the Opening Ceremony when the Japanese men’s national volleyball team arrives at the Olympic Village, fashionably late and loud as ever. Earlier, Bokuto Koutarou had opted to fish out an old, unwashed kneepad from the bottom of his gym bag instead of taking a nap like a sane person, and so for the past ten minutes, the entire national team has been throwing the thing around the bus like a bunch of primary schoolers playing hot potato. 

Understandably, Iwaizumi is already mentally clocking out when their driver pulls into a parking lot behind a rather large residential tower on the east side of the Village. He’s busy thinking about the massive nap he’s going to take once he gets up to his room, eager to run off to anywhere that doesn’t smell like a locker room after practice, when Oikawa Tooru suddenly runs in front of their bus with guns blazing, arms flailing around like an inflatable man in front of a car dealership.

“Oh,” Ushijima says from the seat beside Iwaizumi, turning his entire body to look out the window. “It’s Oikawa. He is waving to us.”

“Oh my God, I hate him,” Iwaizumi says, burying his head into his hands. As he wallows in a puddle of secondhand embarrassment, the rest of the team starts getting up, grabbing their bags from the overhead compartments and stepping off of the bus. 

“He is still waving,” Ushijima points out, as he pulls his backpack onto his shoulders and reaches for Iwaizumi’s massive first aid box. He hands it to him, and Iwaizumi follows him out into the aisle. “He is your boyfriend, right? Shouldn’t you acknowledge him?”

“No thanks,” Iwaizumi groans, “it’s just not worth it to indulge him.” 

Nonetheless, as they make their way off the bus, Iwaizumi feels the smallest bit of anticipation start to form in the pit of his stomach as he steps onto the curb and inevitably meets Oikawa’s excited gaze. All of a sudden there’s a physical barrier between the two of them as the Japanese national team starts to fight like rabid animals over who gets to grab their suitcase from the luggage compartment first, so Oikawa brings his other hand up to try and stick out amongst the unexpected crowd of bodies. His eyes crinkle at the ends as he starts to laugh, and Iwaizumi wonders off-handedly how his arms aren’t tired yet. Though he supposes it’s because Oikawa never quite managed to outgrow his flair for the dramatic, and would definitely never let something as insignificant as a tiny cramp in his upper arms interfere with whatever obnoxious reunion scene he has set in his mind for the two of them.

“Iwaizumi,” Ushijima speaks up again, tapping Iwaizumi on the shoulder, “you are staring. Just go. I will bring your suitcase up to your room for you.”

“Oh, um,” Iwaizumi starts, momentarily caught off-guard. “Okay. Thanks, Ushijima.”

“It is not a problem,” Ushijima says. Iwaizumi quietly slips behind Sakusa and Atsumu, who had been elbowing each other in the ribs for nearly a minute now, instead of simply being patient and collecting their belongings like mature adults. He finds himself unconsciously speeding up once he’s past them and can see Oikawa’s body in full. 

Of course, the idiot’s handsome as ever with the afternoon sun hitting in all the right places, golden light painting the brown curls in his hair and the tip of his nose. He starts walking towards Iwaizumi too, and they meet in the middle, Oikawa bringing his arms down to wrap Iwaizumi in a tight embrace. His hair tickles the side of Iwaizumi’s cheek as he holds him at his waist, and he smells faintly of the coconut shampoo he’s used since middle school. 

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa breathes. From up close, his hair looks much lighter than it had been the last time they were together in person, and his skin is tanner, too. “You should have waited for your team to finish whatever it is they were doing before you came over. This isn’t so romantic without an audience.”

Iwaizumi scoffs and brushes at a lock of Oikawa’s hair that had fallen out of place. “Not every moment in our relationship needs to be something that could come out of a shitty Netflix romance. Also, I hate to break it to you, but besides Ushijima, none of them know that we’re together.”

“I still can’t believe he walked in on us that time after our game!”

“It was your fault for not locking the door.”

“How is it _my_ responsibility to lock the door to _your_ apartment?” Oikawa asks incredulously. He folds his arms over his chest, scandalized. “But that’s besides the point, you still haven’t told your team?”

“No, why should I? I don’t think my relationship status is at all relevant to how well I can take care of my athletes,” Iwaizumi sighs, then adds, “just like how you don’t think it’s worth mentioning to your teammates that I’m not a pocket-sized _girlfriend_ that you like to dote on.”

“I’m working on it!” Oikawa sputters, smoothing out the front of his shirt. “Iwa-chan, do you want me to make things extra obvious while we’re here together?”

“Please don’t,” Iwaizumi answers flatly. Truthfully though, even if Oikawa pretends like it’s a grave sin for Iwaizumi to not to show him off to his entire team -- an unfortunate character flaw that stems from the fact that he never quite managed to mellow out with age -- both of them had come to some mutual consensus a long time ago that their relationship was something intimate between the two of them, something that didn’t necessarily need to be shared with other people.

“I can’t make any promises.”

“ _Come on_ , let’s go up,” Iwaizumi says, rolling his eyes and starting towards the residential building in front of them. On the way up to Iwaizumi’s seventh-floor room, Oikawa lists all the snacks he’s managed to stash in his carry-on suitcase and gripes about the International Olympics Committee’s choice of wallpaper and elevator music. It’s almost like every other Friday, except Oikawa is finally physically in front of Iwaizumi, acting like the big old brat he’s always been, in person instead of over Skype or a phone call.

Later when they get up to Iwaizumi’s room and begin unpacking his toiletries, in true Oikawa fashion, the setter _screams_ as if Iwaizumi has just committed mass murder instead of pull out a 5-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-soap-deodorant-lotion bottle from his suitcase. It’s then that Iwaizumi tells his boyfriend how much he missed him, all while he categorizes all the choice adjectives he has for Oikawa’s obnoxious personality inside his head and prepares to unleash them. 

Nothing reminds him of home more than Oikawa Tooru in the flesh, bitching about how Iwaizumi should really try to be nicer to him.

-

_Volatile substances do not mix_ is the lesson Iwaizumi finds coming back to bite his ass a day later, smack in the middle of the Olympic Village after coming back from dinner with Oikawa at a far-too-fancy Italian restaurant in the heart of Tokyo. It’s not that he’s _literally_ experiencing a chemical crisis of toxic proportions. But the way Oikawa and Miya Atsumu are staring each other down in a public setting, not paying any mind to the dozens of athletes milling about around them right now does make Iwaizumi feel a little bit like he’s back in high school chemistry with pieces of a broken beaker in his hand and isopropyl alcohol spilled all over the front of his shirt.

Atsumu is the first to break the uncomfortable silence. “Iwaizumi, as I was saying, I think that my last contact with the ball during today’s game was kinda off. I think I did something to my finger, so I was wondering if you could stop by later and take a look? I’d hate to ignore this just because it doesn’t hurt all that much and end up with an injury that could have been avoided, you know?”

If Iwaizumi’s being honest, he started suspecting that the majority of Atsumu’s health concerns were either completely made up or extraordinarily inflated the second time the setter had thrown himself onto the floor without any warning during practice and begged the athletic trainer to help him up. Iwaizumi probably would have said something about it a long time ago, but it’s not like he can straight up deny the needs of his players, even if they’re most likely fake. So, he plays the plausible deniability card every time. 

For the sake of keeping his job, which he actually really likes, and because treating made-up injuries is infinitely better than sitting around and doing nothing while everyone else practices.

“I honestly wish you would stop pretending like you’re injured just so Iwaizumi can touch you and make you feel something,” Sakusa deadpans from beside Atsumu. He kicks at a tiny pebble, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his windbreaker.

“Broody-kun, you stole the words right from my mouth!” Oikawa exclaims, before stepping closer to Atsumu and pointing an accusing finger at him. “Atsumu-chan, as much as this pains me to admit, your last set was perfect. Silent and perfectly matched to your spiker’s swing. So, there’s no reason for you to be injured.”

“Wait, you were at the game?”

“Of course I was. It’s very important to have some prior knowledge on how your opponents play before you actually go up against them. I was there to gather intel!”

Iwaizumi looks down at the takeout box full of greasy leftover pasta in his hands, and seriously considers pouring it over Oikawa’s head.

“We’re not doing this right now,” He says gruffly, thumbing at the plastic fork resting on top of the box.

Atsumu blinks. He opens his mouth to say something, but then Oikawa interrupts.

“Okay, you know what? I’m feeling generous today,” he says, pressing a finger to his chin. “Atsumu-chan, why don’t you follow me and _Iwaizumi_ here up to his room? I also have something that needs to be dealt with, so you can come along and get your little injury checked out as well!”

_Dear God,_ Iwaizumi thinks. He runs up to Oikawa, who’s already started towards the main residential tower with Atsumu and a less-than-enthusiastic Sakusa trailing behind him.

“Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t do it,” Iwaizumi whispers to Oikawa, who’s looking a little too happy right now.

“Iwa-chan, have a little faith in me, won’t you?” Oikawa tuts, humming some pop tune as he flashes his identification card at the security guard poised at the front of their residential tower. Sakusa and Atsumu do the same, followed by Iwaizumi. The guard gives them a once-over and when he lets them in, Oikawa flashes him a bright smile and tells him to enjoy his night.

He then leads them down the lobby and towards the elevators. Once they all step on, they climb all seven floors in complete, awkward silence -- or _definitely_ awkward but _almost_ complete silence -- Oikawa was still humming that stupid pop song to himself, which makes Iwaizumi feel extremely on edge. You don’t grow up with a guy and not end up learning the exact mannerisms he displays before he’s about to pull some type of mischief, especially if said guy is Oikawa Tooru.

When the elevator stops and the doors slide open, Oikawa immediately makes a beeline for Iwaizumi’s room. Iwaizumi briefly thinks that he might be wrong, that Oikawa really did have no ulterior motive in mind, but then the setter hovers over the handle of the door, key card that he swiped from Iwaizumi’s bedside table the night before tucked in between his index and middle fingers.

“I forgot something,” he says, backtracking and making all three of his oblivious companions follow him down a hallway that hosts a variety of vending machines and an ice room.

Unfortunately, it appears as if Iwaizumi’s ability to read Oikawa is still functional as ever, since the setter pauses in front of a white machine labelled with the words _Celebrate Tokyo 2020 with a condom!_ in an absolutely horrendous cursive font, tucked inconspicuously in between two nearly-empty drink dispensers. 

Oikawa turns the dispenser knob not once, not twice, but five times in rapid succession. Iwaizumi and Atsumu both stand there frozen, gawking; Sakusa pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers as a roll of ten brightly-packaged contraceptives unravels from a slot at the bottom of the machine. Oikawa picks up the roll, refolds it tightly, and presses it into the palm of Iwaizumi’s hand -- the one that isn’t currently busy holding his leftovers from dinner. He then grabs the athletic trainer by the wrist and leads him back to his room, the setter and hitter pair from the Japanese national team trailing behind them with various degrees of _what-the-fuck_ written across their faces.

Oikawa swipes the key card, deftly unlocks the room and pulls Iwaizumi inside, then immediately shuts the door in Atsumu and Sakusa’s faces.

“Sorry, I changed my mind, Atsumu-chan,” Oikawa says through a crack between the door and its frame. “You can wait outside for us to finish.”

“I fucking hate you, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi says, finally able to form a coherent thought.

“Sorry. Hey, Iwa-chan, could you put down the pasta?”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi says, throwing the takeout box onto the empty desk table next to him. He grabs Oikawa by the collar of his shirt and presses their lips together firmly in a kiss.

-

The next morning, Oikawa unleashes a five-part rant about how disappointed he is in the quality of Olympic condoms on his Instagram story.

It trends worldwide on Twitter, and by the time they finish their breakfast (courtesy of room service, since Oikawa “didn’t feel comfortable walking down to the dining hall as a newly-minted celebrity”), the setter has gained two thousand new followers on Instagram.

At that point, Iwaizumi _has_ to call Matsukawa before he explodes into a pile of pure contempt for Oikawa Tooru. 

“I’m going to do it,” he hisses into the speaker of his phone when Matsukawa picks up after the second ring. “I’m literally going to murder him in cold blood.”

“Oh cheer up. You know, it could be worse. At least you have a job --,” Matsukawa deadpans, before another voice cuts through in the background and unleashes a string of curses.

“That was Hanamaki,” Matsukawa says, “he says big congratulations on the return of your sex life. It’s been a while since you two last saw each other in person, right? Glad to hear that you guys are making up for lost time.”

“I don’t even know why I called. You’re worse than Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi groans, and hangs up.

-

After fifteen minutes of trying to just ignore the staring, Iwaizumi gives up. 

“Sorry, but is there something you need from me?” He asks, walking over to confront Argentina’s athletic trainer, who has been boring holes into the back of his head ever since the Japanese team first arrived for their quarterfinal match against Argentina.

“Ah, um... I don’t really know how to say this without making it sound awkward, but our starting setter won’t do his warm-ups with me and insisted that I come get you instead,” The trainer replies, shifting from one foot to another. 

“He wants me to...” Iwaizumi starts, rubbing at his temples. He’s been too good of a person recently to be subjected to something like this. “Okay.”

“You don’t have to indulge him if you don’t want to, obviously,” The trainer replies, “but it seems like your team is okay to be without you for a little bit?” He tilts his chin forward and points at the other side of the net, where Bokuto is running through crosses with Atsumu while the others fill the remaining empty space on their side of the court and pass back and forth.

“So if you have the time, maybe you could…” He says carefully, brushing at the back of his head awkwardly.

“No yeah, it’s fine,” Iwaizumi draws in a breath. “I can do it.” He tries very hard _not_ to look at Oikawa, who’s sitting next to his coach on the bench, pulling at his knee pad and making a grand show of needing to be warmed up. 

“Thank you,” The trainer breathes, visibly relieved. He starts walking off but then pauses, remembering something.

“Oh wait, Oikawa has a bad knee that you’ll probably have to pay a little more attention to. He’s always telling me I don’t stretch it properly, so maybe you’ll have better luck with it,” He laughs, turning around to apply tape to a middle blocker’s fingers. “Or you might be better off just ignoring him -- Oikawa’s a great setter, but he can be a real pain in the ass to deal with sometimes.”

“ _Trust me_ , I know,” Iwaizumi smiles. He picks up a ball from Argentina’s pale blue and white cart as he walks over to Oikawa, then hurls it at the setter’s head once he’s close enough to get a perfect shot. It hits him with a resounding _smack,_ and the way Oikawa freezes for a second to digest what just happened to him reminds Iwaizumi a little too much of being seventeen and having to drag Oikawa away from the girls that would show up to their tournaments with good luck charms and homemade pastries.

“Ow!” Oikawa yells, rubbing at the back of his head. “Iwa-chan, you _would_ try and concuss the star of the Argentinian national team right before one of the most important games of his entire career, you heartless brute!”

“Shut up,” Iwaizumi retorts, “and stop giving your poor trainer such a hard time.” He settles down next to Oikawa and grabs his hands lightly, moving them from his knees to his side before grabbing a roll of red-colored pre-wrap. 

“How is it _my_ fault that he can’t take care of my injury like Iwa-chan does?” Oikawa complains, nudging Iwaizumi with his shoulder. Iwaizumi carefully brings Oikawa’s legs up onto the bench and starts wrapping his bad knee. It’s like they’re in high school again, sitting on the floor of the Sendai City Gymnasium, Oikawa getting a rise out of Iwaizumi right before a game.

“You’re a real piece of work,” Iwaizumi groans, pressing down on the pre-wrap lightly to secure it into place. “He’s a professional. I’m sure he’s doing just fine.”

“But I need _top-notch_ professional care!” Oikawa huffs. He starts picking at his newly-wrapped knee because the material always irritates his skin. “And Iwa-chan is top-notch, even if he’s got a whole lot of nothing inside of his head where there’s supposed to be a brain.”

Iwaizumi just glares at Oikawa while he cackles at his own joke. “Keep talking and I’ll break your fucking leg.”

“I wish you’d stop being so hostile all the time,” Oikawa hums calmly, because they both know Iwaizumi is all bark and no bite. “It can’t be good for your blood pressure.”

“I’ll stop being hostile when you stop being shit personified,” Iwaizumi scowls, beginning to wrap Oikawa’s knee with athletic tape. He brings the roll of tape around the top of his knee once, twice, and then secures it around the sides of the joint tightly.

Oikawa brings his legs down from Iwaizumi’s lap and extends his left leg a couple of times, checking to make sure that the tape is providing enough support for his injured knee, but not completely restricting his movement.

“All good?” Iwaizumi asks, mostly out of habit. Oikawa _was_ the first athlete he’d ever seriously taken care of, after all.

“Mhm,” Oikawa gives him a thumbs-up, “you did a good job. I’m going to steal you from your team and keep you all to myself.”

Iwaizumi scoffs and twists Oikawa’s arm behind his back, laughing when the setter cries out in pain. When he finally relinquishes his grip on Oikawa’s arm and the two fall silent, Iwaizumi is suddenly left with nothing to focus on besides the loud cheering coming from all sides of the arena and the familiar presence of Oikawa beside him. If he closes his eyes he thinks this could really be just like any other game they played as setter and ace back in high school, with him wrapping Oikawa’s knee right before they step on the court as the brunet chattered animatedly with Mizoguchi and Irihata, the sound of Seijou’s cheering squad allowing them to fall into a solid rhythm as they prepared to step onto the court. 

“Good luck out there, Tooru,” Iwaizumi says as he stands, fiddling with the laminated name tag resting in the center of his chest. “This time we’re destroying you for sure.”

“Your team is 0-for-2 right now, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa smiles, grabbing a ball from a ball cart. “So I appreciate the faith you have in your team, but I’ll be expecting to see you all in the stands clapping when I’m on the podium claiming gold during the medal ceremony.”

He flashes a peace sign and starts heading towards his team then, the muscles in his back flexing against the pale blue of his jersey.

Iwaizumi is definitely not left busy thinking about how much he missed seeing the intensity behind Oikawa’s eyes right before a game when he walks back to Japan’s side of the net and checks on his players one last time before they take their positions on the court. He definitely doesn’t catch himself letting out a cheer when Oikawa snags the first service ace of the game, this monster of a jump serve that landed dead in between Sakusa and Hinata, giving them absolutely no chance at getting the ball up.

And when Kuroo Tetsurou corners him after the game and asks him why he looks so proud, even though Japan just got knocked out in the quarterfinals and narrowly missed their chance at leaving the Games with medals around their necks, he definitely doesn’t grab a spare ball and hurl it at the reporter’s smug grin, either.

-

The team meets in the head coach’s room after cooling down and grabbing lunch to discuss the outcome of the game. Everyone’s silent, the air heavy with the disappointment of knowing that despite how hard they worked, someone else had come along and overtaken them when they were just one step away from claiming a spot on the Olympic podium. It’s a defeat that hits everyone particularly hard. The loss is bittersweet for Iwaizumi too, having been a physical witness these past few months to the actualization of a monster team made up entirely of players that were the quintessence of raw talent and dedication. He was so sure that they’d be able to pull through, too.

Surprisingly, Ushijima is the first to break the silence.

“Losing in straight sets to Argentina is not too terrible of a way to go out,” he starts, clearing his throat. “All of them are very good players, who work very hard. And Oikawa especially… well, I am sure you all know, since many of us played against him in high school. He deserves this, this win.”

Everyone simply nods in agreement, brushing at their eyes. They spend the rest of the meeting going over logistical things: what they’re allowed to do now that they’re free of any competitive obligations for the rest of the Games, plans for upcoming club seasons, a brief rundown of how they’re going to prepare for the next international tournament and potential new recruits for the national team. Iwaizumi twirls athletic tape with his fingers, unsure of how to feel.

Right before they leave, Hinata speaks up, smiling softly while zipping up his training jacket. “I’m sure we all know who we’re going to be rooting for to win the gold, then.”

-

On the tenth day of the Games, Iwaizumi is halfway finished with his second lunch -- this shitty excuse for a cheeseburger that absolutely cannot hold a single candle to the offensive amounts of In-N-Out he’s consumed over the past nine years -- when he feels Oikawa slide his hand under the table and lace their fingers together.

“No,” he says gruffly in between bites of plastic cheese and mystery meat, because while the gesture is endearing in a primary school secret playground romance kind of way, they’re literally sitting at the one cafeteria table that’s smack in the middle of the Athletes’ Dining Hall during peak hours (it was the only table big enough to accommodate not one, but two Olympic men’s volleyball teams).

Oikawa just grins in response, before turning to his teammate and engaging in what seems to be a very heated discussion about the final episode of a telenovela he had been binging for the past couple of months. Iwaizumi gets back to his burger; maybe if he takes big enough bites and just keeps _eating,_ his brain will have no time to register how disgusting it is.

He’s moved onto his fries, which are considerably more edible and don’t have him wanting to dry heave into a napkin every three seconds, when Oikawa turns back around and squeezes his hand. He smiles at Iwaizumi obnoxiously to punctuate the action, then props his chin up on his other hand and stares at Aran, still smiling. It’s the most subtly obvious public display of affection Iwaizumi has ever been on the receiving end of.

And yes, having Oikawa’s hand in his is still so comforting and makes his cheeks flush like a teenager with a crush even after all these years. But Iwaizumi just about reaches his limit after the fourth squeeze.

“Fucking hell, are you touch deprived or something?” the trainer whispers, knocking his knee into Oikawa’s.

“Of course not, we’ve been living in the same housing complex for the past week,” Oikawa says, yelping when Iwaizumi flings a fry that had been generously smothered with ketchup at his face. “Hey, no throwing greasy objects at my face!”

“You deserved that one,” Iwaizumi replies as Oikawa dabs at his face with a napkin, pouting. He pushes at his knee again. “Let go of my hand, Shittykawa, or I’ll make you.”

“Never,” Oikawa retorts. His gaze has shifted over to one of his teammates now -- a second-string opposite, if Iwaizumi remembers correctly.

“I will literally spill this blue Gatorade all over the front of your shirt.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Oikawa shrugs, and maybe he’s right, but only because Oikawa refuses to do his own laundry whenever Iwaizumi’s protective instincts are readily available for him to exploit, so it would end up being Iwaizumi’s loss anyways.

Either way, they’re still surrounded by a bunch of world-class athletes, with more filtering into the hall from outside the Village by the minute as more teams finish early matches and wrap up morning practices. They’re also not exactly sitting in the most covert spot in the dining hall, and it never helps that Oikawa, well, looks and acts the way he does. Because even Olympians aren’t immune to the charisma that Oikawa has carefully refined since he could talk, in fact, the Oikawa Effect seems to have tripled in potency now that he’s bulked up, gotten tan, and become bilingual.

So really, Iwaizumi can’t blame the group of American soccer players who are eyeing Oikawa from the table next to them. Everything’s fine until they finish eating and get up with their trays, stopping in front of Oikawa on their way to the trash can. The aforementioned setter perks up when he notices the company.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says carefully, “I will drench you in sports drink if you even think about doing anything stupid.”

Oikawa ignores him and presses his arm against Iwaizumi’s, smiling up at the soccer players and batting his eyelashes as if he didn’t just make it painfully obvious that he was holding hands with his boyfriend under a cafeteria table right now. The girls just smile politely, quietly tell them that they look cute together, and walk away. Once they’re gone, Iwaizumi promptly spills the remaining contents of his cup onto Oikawa’s shirt, forever grateful for the fact that both of their teams were too busy flicking a water bottle cap back and forth across the length of the table to pay attention to what was happening around them.

Oikawa immediately separates their hands so he can make a futile attempt at wiping down his shirt, whining about how he’s going to have to go back up to his room and change before practice while Iwaizumi cackles at his misfortune. He’s not sure how long they sit like that for, Oikawa pressing napkins into his chest and Iwaizumi wheezing with laughter, the food in front of him long abandoned -- but he does know that they stop right about when Hoshiumi Korai, of all people, tells them to stop acting like children.

_-_

They’re halfway through what must have been the fifth _Forensic Files_ episode of the night when Iwaizumi begins to nod off. Instinctively, he reaches for Oikawa, who’s sitting cross-legged next to him with his laptop propped up on his legs, screen tilted slightly to the left so they can both comfortably watch the show. Iwaizumi loops his arm around the setter’s, resting his head on the soft cashmere of Oikawa’s crewneck sweater, and lets his other hand clasp his fingers, which were previously tapping a lazy rhythm onto the trackpad of his computer. It’s all so familiar and makes him wonder in a straightforward and superficial way, how they managed to spend most of the past ten years apart.

He has maybe a second of bliss before Oikawa pulls away, pauses their show in the middle of an interview with a FBI field officer that was _crucial_ to the case that was being solved, and sticks his tongue out at Iwaizumi.

“Let go of my hand, Iwa-chan, or I’ll make you,” Oikawa says in an exaggerated imitation of Iwaizumi’s voice, while slapping his hand away. He gently pushes the trainer’s head off of his shoulder too, and twists his arm out from Iwaizumi’s grip.

“Crappykawa,” Iwaizumi laughs, placing his hand on Oikawa’s cheek and pushing the setter’s head to the side. “Are you really going to hold that against me?”

“Mhm,” Oikawa hums, closing his laptop with a _snap_ and climbing off the bed. He throws his blankets at Iwaizumi and starts towards the bathroom. “I’m going to shower, you just sit there and reflect on your actions from this afternoon.”

Iwaizumi flips him off, then wraps himself in the linen sheets, stretching his legs across the length of Oikawa’s twin bed. He’d think the International Olympic Committee would have had more sense than to set a bunch of professional athletes up with these tiny-ass beds to sleep on, but who knows. In fact, the first thing Oikawa had suggested back on Iwaizumi’s first day in the Village was that they push their beds together to form a larger one, a-la summer training camp. A week of playing human Tetris trying to fit himself comfortably on Oikawa’s bed later, Iwaizumi is actually seriously considering the suggestion. But then Oikawa turns on the water and starts singing -- or tries singing -- Twice’s _Candy Pop_ in the original female key, and Iwaizumi nips that thought in the bud.

“Of all idiots in the world,” He says to no one in particular, smiling despite himself, “why does it have to be this one?”

-

After defeating Russia three sets to one in the semifinals, Argentina goes on to face Brazil in the gold medal match of the 2020 Olympics. It’s a high-stakes game, not just because it’s the literal _Olympics_ , but also because the match is essentially a repeat of last year’s World Cup final, where Brazil had just barely managed to snag the championship from Argentina in a hard-fought fifth set. Oikawa, ever his own harshest critic, had taken the loss particularly to heart since it had been his first international tournament as starting setter of the national team. He had sworn to come back with a vengeance that night, silver medal wrapped around his neck, and like all promises made by Oikawa Tooru, it was one that he intended to keep.

So here Iwaizumi is on the second-to-last day of the Tokyo Olympics, sitting in the stands on the setter’s side of the court, tucked behind a row of press and die-hard Argentine volleyball fans. Oikawa didn’t quite manage to convince him to wear his jersey to the game (“Iwa-chan, you’d look so cute with my name across your back!”), but Iwaizumi _had_ agreed to let him paint little Argentine flags on his cheeks earlier that morning, and is wearing a plain pale blue shirt under his Team Japan jacket.

“Excited for the match?” Aran asks over the sound of the crowd. The rest of the team is here too, many of them talking a little too loudly and fidgeting a little too much in their seats -- Bokuto had taken them to a Happy Hour at a local bar an hour earlier, so they were a little buzzed. Not drunk to the point where all caution is thrown to the wind, but a couple of mimosas combined with the general atmosphere at the final volleyball game of the Olympics? They’re understandably hyped up.

“Something like that,” Iwaizumi laughs, snapping his fingers at Hyakuzawa like a schoolteacher when the middle blocker leans too far forward and nearly falls out of his seat. “To be honest, I’m a little nervous.”

“You always gotta be a little nervous when it comes to Brazil,” Aran comments, “but you know Argentina’s got this, too. I have a good feeling about this game.”

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi smiles, eyes now fixed on the orange court below them. They begin to announce the starting lineups for each team over the speakers, and Iwaizumi watches as the players run to form huddles on the court. Oikawa doesn’t look all that nervous, just dangerously serious in the way he always does before a game. Even with his face hidden and back to the crowd, arms resting on the backs of his ace and libero, Iwaizumi knows exactly what he’s saying. _Today, too, I believe in all of you._

The whistle blows and Oikawa’s got the first serve. The crowd roars as he distances himself from the backline, walking towards the partition between the court and the first row of spectators. He steels himself, closing his eyes and turning towards the net. Turns the blue and yellow ball over in his hands and spins it around once, then stops it, the same pre-serve routine Iwaizumi has watched him execute countless times since he started jump serving in middle school to get a leg up on all the other players in their prefecture. He starts his approach, then throws the ball high into the air, fans chanting _Tooru, Tooru, Tooru,_ as it arcs down and meets the palm of his hand. The ball flies across the net cleanly as if it were a bullet shooting straight towards the center of a target, and Brazil just barely manages a dig, sending it flying back over to Argentina’s side. Their libero gets a solid receive on the free ball and Oikawa’s already there waiting next to the net, giving a neat toss to their outside, who blasts through Brazil’s one-man block and scores the first point of the game.

The crowd explodes, flags waving and fists pumping into the air. Iwaizumi and the rest of Team Japan cheers with them, making makeshift megaphones with their hands cupped around their mouths. It’s a slightly premature celebration, but it’s one that’s full of pride, knowing that the men out there on that court are nothing short of absolute warriors. Oikawa serves again, an LED monitor on the side of the court recording the speed as 121 kilometers per hour as the ball is dug by Brazil’s libero. Their setter sets up to their opposite, who goes to spike. Argentina has two blockers on him, who jump up with their arms outstretched towards the peak of his swing like a curving umbrella. Their fingers graze the ball, but it’s not enough to stop the sheer velocity at which it hurtles towards their man-made shield; it flies out and it’s Brazil’s point. There’s a brief collective sigh from Argentina’s side of the arena as the line judge raises his arms and blows his whistle, but the crowd picks itself back up just as easy. _It’s just the second point of the first set,_ Iwaizumi says silently with his cheers, _just_ _keep fighting with the little bit of momentum you’ve managed to grasp with your first point and build upon it._

And that’s exactly what Argentina manages to do. They take any chance of grabbing free points on service aces away from Brazil’s strongest server with this gorgeous play that has the entire team moving in for a synchronised attack, only to have Oikawa perform a setter dump at the very last second. It has everyone on the court and in the stands fooled, and Iwaizumi doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s beaming with pride when an announcer sat just below him leans into his microphone and highlights Oikawa’s brilliant genius for all 15,000 people sitting in the arena with him and the rest of the world watching from home.

The remainder of the match proceeds in a similar vein, with the two teams passing the lead back and forth, neither willing to let the other slip too far ahead. Brazil takes the first set, then Argentina fights back by taking the second and third. Brazil’s victory in the fourth set takes them to a fifth, both sides physically and mentally worn out, but still unrelenting in their pursuits towards victory. Argentina finally manages to get a break when they score on a 24-24 deuce, turning the scoreboard in their favor. One of their middle blockers goes up to serve and everyone in the arena holds their breath with the anticipation of knowing that this next point could very well be the last.

The serve ends up being a floater that Brazil gets a solid overhand receive on. It flies from their setter to their outside who, with a swing like a cracking whip, manages to hit killer straight -- but Argentina’s libero is already there to pick it up. The ball is up again and Oikawa is starting a running approach, pulling his arm back as if he was moving in to spike. Iwaizumi’s breath catches in his throat and his nails dig into his palms -- there are three blockers marking Oikawa, jumping with the full intention of stopping whatever hit he’s about to unleash -- but Iwaizumi knows better than that. He watches as Oikawa leads the blockers to the tallest point of his jump but then suddenly brings his hands back down to form a diamond under the ball, fingers light as a feather as he sends it soundlessly to his ace.

There is nothing standing between the ace and the court as he flies above the net, wrist snapping. The ball smashes into the ground in a blur of blue and yellow.

There’s nothing but silence for the briefest of moments, every single person in the arena fixated on whatever _genius_ play Argentina’s setter has just managed to orchestrate. But then Argentina’s crowd roars and everyone is jumping and chanting, Oikawa’s falling to the ground with his face cupped in his hands while his team piles on top of him. Three seats away from Iwaizumi, Kageyama Tobio is watching his former upperclassman with stars in his eyes. The atmosphere is electrifying, and Iwaizumi is frozen in the middle of it.

“Oikawa played exceptionally well today,” Ushijima’s voice cuts through the crowd. He’s clapping politely, fingers hitting the center of his palm. “You must be very proud of him.”

“I...” Iwaizumi starts, heart swelling with a million different emotions at once.

Before he can get anything else out, the Argentine team runs up to the stands with the press swarming them like sharks, eager to capture the players’ reactions to a historical win. The fans sitting in the first row are screaming with joy, draping pale blue flags over the players’ shoulders and ruffling their hair. 

Oikawa Tooru, starting setter and indisputable MVP of the match, stands in the very middle with his brows furrowed and tears streaming down his face. Even in all the chaos his eyes immediately find Iwaizumi’s, irises shining golden brown with unadulterated bliss. 

“You did it,” Iwaizumi mouths at Oikawa, “Tooru, _you did it._ ”

Oikawa smiles in understanding, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his jersey. At that moment, to Iwaizumi he is seven, seventeen, and twenty-seven all at once -- a child losing his first volleyball to a tree because his best friend’s backyard was never quite big enough to properly pass a ball back and forth, a high schooler who cultivated his own talent in place of natural-born genius, confronted with a mountain too tall to climb. A man who is trust, wonder, and certainty all at once. 

Argentina’s ace rests a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, pointing at the podiums that have been dragged onto the court in place of the net. The setter nods, acknowledging him, but pauses for a brief second. He presses a kiss into the palm of his hand, throws it up in the air and sets it towards the second row of the stands, to where Iwaizumi is sitting. _I did it._

“Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi whispers to himself, shaking his head. But behind all the waving flags and backs of fans and reporters he catches the kiss anyways and slips it into the pocket of his jacket.

-

In hindsight, Iwaizumi probably should have realized that something was very, _very_ wrong the moment he started hearing Bruno Mars’ voice over wedding bells at the closing ceremonies of the Tokyo Olympics. If not then, he definitely should have realized once the entirety of the Argentine and Japanese men’s volleyball teams stopped in front of him during the Parade of Athletes. He’s technically not even supposed to be down there with them, but somehow, Oikawa and most of the Japanese team had managed to convince him to carry their flag and walk out with them. 

(“It'd be such a disappointing end to the Olympics if we didn’t get those arms of yours on national television, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa had said, which in itself was almost enough to make Iwaizumi not even want to _attend_ the closing ceremonies, but then everyone else started ganging up on him and he had given in.)

So now he’s standing in the center of the Olympic Stadium, gigantic professional volleyball players circling around him while a poppy love song from 2010 echoes throughout the entire stadium. Everything is suddenly very reminiscent of all the flash-mob proposal videos Oikawa used to force Iwaizumi to watch with him and cry over. 

_Oh,_ Iwaizumi thinks to himself, everything clicking into place. It’s at this exact moment that Oikawa emerges behind him and pulls him further into the middle of this man-made circle, grinning and singing along when the song reaches its chorus.

“Come on,” Oikawa says, brushing his hair back. The rest of the players on their teams are clumsily moving to the beat of the music, trying their best to dance in a coordinated fashion. It’s stupidly endearing. “Iwa-chan, dance with me.”

“Don’t make me embarrass myself in front of all these people,” Iwaizumi laughs, awkwardly following Oikawa’s lead. The rest of the athletes are gathered behind the circle, watching in anticipation, some pulling out their phones to record the moment.

“I told you I would make things extra obvious while we were here together,” Oikawa smiles, grabbing Iwaizumi’s hands. 

“I really think you should just be thankful that none of these people can hear your terrible singing right now,” Iwaizumi retorts, letting their intertwined hands fall to Oikawa’s waist. He looks up as the song reaches the climax and realizes that something about the stadium has changed; where there was darkness in the stands before is now suddenly filled with the glow of thousands of smartphone flashlights, flickering softly.

“Yeah?” Oikawa answers, suddenly pulling back and running towards his teammates, who start pumping their fists and cheering. The song reaches the bridge and Iwaizumi thinks he’s hearing heavy bass drums, but then there’s a flash of bright lights above him and he realizes that literal _fireworks_ have just launched from the open roof of the stadium into the sky.

They explode and paint the ink-black night with electrifying blues and greens and reds and yellows. Seijou teal and Kitaiichi dark blue. The color of a Southern California skyline and an Argentine sunset.

“I told you no Netflix-esque romantic gestures,” Iwaizumi says as Oikawa starts walking back towards him. In that moment, it feels like they’re the only two people inside of this stadium of sixty thousand.

“And I told you I couldn’t make any promises,” Oikawa says. The instrumentals in the song begin to fade out and he gets down on one knee, pulling a tiny gold band from the back pocket of his jeans.

“ _It’s a beautiful night, we’re looking for something dumb to do,_ ” the setter mouths softly, “ _Hey baby, I think I wanna marry you._ ”

The circle starts to close in on them as the music fades away. Everyone quiets and the last of the fireworks cascade down the sky in tiny golden fragments. Iwaizumi takes a breath and stares at Oikawa, silent for the briefest of moments.

“Yeah,” he whispers, really just as a formality, because it had always been a given that they’d end up spending the rest of their lives together. “Let’s do it.”

Oikawa beams and stands up to close the distance between them, gently grabbing Iwaizumi’s hand and sliding the ring onto his finger. The crowd explodes with cheers and whistles, half of the Japanese national team is crying, and even Sakusa’s features have softened into a tiny smile. Iwaizumi buries his face into his hands, feeling the cool metal against his burning skin. He probably should have seen this coming with Oikawa. And what the fuck, he loves him _so much._

“Come here,” Iwaizumi says, pulling Oikawa even closer to him. He cups the setter’s face with his hands and kisses him, softly and tenderly. When they pull apart, the crowd starts to quiet down again and their little circle breaks, people moving in to politely congratulate them as the ceremony continues, the two of them fading back into the sea of athletes.

“You know, my number one goal for the Games was to leave with the gold, obviously,” Oikawa says, resting his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder and tracing the surface of the ring. “But goal number two was this. Which really, is something I should have done a long, long time ago.”

“You’re the worst,” Iwaizumi replies, “proposing with all these theatrics.”

“You know I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic,” Oikawa says simply, snaking his arm around Iwaizumi’s waist.

“Idiot. I fucking love you,” Iwaizumi says in English, tracing the line of Oikawa’s jaw, feeling the soft pressure of the setter’s fingers pressed into the fabric of his shirt. “It’s always, _always_ been you, Tooru.”

“Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,” Oikawa smiles. _I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._ “Hajime.”

As Iwaizumi looks down at Oikawa, he sees the face of a triumphant king, one who rules not only oak wood and orange-tangerine courts but also the very heart that beats inside of Iwaizumi’s chest. He holds Oikawa’s hand, calloused and rough, and traces the only fingers that have ever tossed to him. He stares at a back that he has followed from the mountaintops in Sendai to the coast of Argentina, the body of a boy who can make any place on Earth feel like home.

Here, standing next to his childhood best friend, his other half, his _fiancé_ under the soft amber glow of the Olympic Torch, is just exactly where Iwaizumi wants to be.

-

_BONUS:_

_Oikawa sends Iwaizumi off in the lobby of their residential tower after making him promise to visit him in Argentina at least once before the start of his club season, for good luck. The rest of the Japanese national team is already there waiting, messing around on their phones and double-checking their suitcases._

_“You sure you don’t want me to drop you off at the airport later?” Iwaizumi asks as Oikawa passes him his backpack. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”_

_“No, don’t, I’ll just get sad,” Oikawa frowns, hand lingering over Iwaizumi’s._

_“Okay, stupid,” Iwaizumi laughs, grabbing Oikawa’s hand and squeezing it, before turning around. “See you.”_

_“Wait, Iwa-chan, you forgot this,” Oikawa says. He pulls Iwaizumi back towards him and kisses him softly. When they pull apart, he gives the trainer a tiny wave and then walks back to the elevators, having to go back to his room and finish packing for his flight back to Argentina._

_When Iwaizumi looks back at his team, they’re all snickering like a bunch of teenagers, except for Atsumu, who’s leaning dramatically against his suitcase and looking a little like the main character of a sad music video._

_“What’s up with him?” He asks Sakusa, who’s ripping open a packet of alcohol wipes._

_“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Sakusa answers, wiping down the handles of his suitcase. “He’s just in denial over the fact that you’re getting married to someone who isn’t him.”_

_Iwaizumi laughs as they begin to board their bus. He walks over to Atsumu and pats the setter on the shoulder, helping him organize his belongings in the overhead compartment. "Cheer up, Atsumu. There are plenty of other buff athletic trainers out there for you to love."_

_Atsumu sighs dramatically as he sits down, pressing his face against the bus window. “Be honest. He's the reason why you don’t let me call you Iwa-kun, right?”_

_-_

**Author's Note:**

> ahaha..... there u have it! the fluffiest fic i have ever written, the byproduct of all my daydreaming about what iwaoi would be like at the olympics. again, i did exaggerate some things for the sake of narrative (even though oikawa definitely would interrupt the literal closing ceremonies of the olympics to propose to iwa-chan) but i hope that didn't detract too much from the story. i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope u had fun reading too!! 
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3


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